


Wildflower

by Tandy



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet, Fluff, Future Fic, Nimue/Lancelot - Freeform, Nimulot - Freeform, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:13:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26400958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tandy/pseuds/Tandy
Summary: The moon was not yet full, and on any other night, the forest would be too dark to see, too treacherous to run with such abandon.   On this night the moon shone just right, and the path veered perfectly, allowing lovers a safe harbor under the cover of the woods.  The magic Nimue had spoken only moments ago, thrummed with the beat of her heart, exotic and wild and lust filled.
Relationships: Nimue & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Nimue/Lancelot, Nimue/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 190





	Wildflower

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Unbeta'd; read at your own risk. 
> 
> This little ficlet is a thank you fic for all the wonderful people that left kudos and comments on my first Nimulot fanfiction. I'm very happy it was enjoyed.

The sun was shining brightly and it’s warmth felt lovely on Nimue’s skin. She laughed as she ducked and swerved, weaving the ribbon in her hands around the pole. The other dancers laughed with her, equally joyful. Drums and flutes played merrily, and the sweet scent of summer filled the air. It was a rare day indeed for the Fey, but a much needed one. She couldn’t remember the last time they had been so carefree.

Summer had arrived and the Fey had welcomed it with much fanfare. The grounds outside the Keep were filled with masked, horned, and flower-wreathed wearing revelers. Garlands were thrown around every available surface and the bonfires were being readied for the night time festivities. And most importantly, her people were alive, and though bone weary at their long fight, happy to be able to celebrate Beltane again as was custom.

Mabon, Samhain and Yule had passed them by, as well as Candlemas and Ostara, but they were in their new home that had cost them much in blood and suffering; they were not about to lose Beltane too. Nimue ran faster, laughing harder as she did so. She caught sight of Pym’s red hair and winked at the other girl as they passed each other.

She saw Gawain cheering the dancers on, Squirrel at his side, his mouth filled with food, and the Monk behind the boy like a shadow. Nimue sent them a smile too, her heart thumping against her chest, noting the Monk’s eyes on her and only her. It was not a novel occurrence, as the Monk and those eyes of his, always seemed to follow her about from the moment they had met.

Granted, she’d threatened to kill him in various inventive ways at every opportunity, so perhaps some vigilance was to be expected, she mused while she wove one final time around the pole.

Not that she was under the illusion that he had feared for his life or had been otherwise inconvenienced by her very obvious loathing of him. Nimue had yet to see him fret about anything. From the very beginning his gaze toward her had showcased curiosity, maybe even fascination.

She found Pym again as the last notes of the drums faded away, and they both fell into each others arms out of breath, their hearts alight with laughter. They dropped to the ground as they had done when they had been children and looked up toward their handwork. The pole now vibrant with woven color.

“We were in dire need of this,” Pym said wistfully.

Nimue sighed and sat up, looking around, nodding. This is what they had fought so hard for, what they must keep fighting for, she thought, gazing at her people, at all the clans that were now one. Once again she searched for Squirrel, wanting to see his smile. Instead of his smile, she found him glaring at a tusk.

The tusk had started early and was obviously drunk, and looking for a fight. He spat at the Monk’s feet as he passed by, to which Squirrel had reacted predictably; turning around, ready to fight for the Monk’s honor.

“Piss off! You big pile of stinking sh-”

“Percival,” the Monk said calmly, grabbing the scruff of the boy’s shirt and leading him away from the possible scuffle.

“They make quite a pair, do they not?” Pym said, having caught the altercation too.

“They do,” Nimue said, staring after the retreating pair. It was rare nowadays for the monk to be so reviled, but there were still people that resented his presence. She could not blame them.

No doubt the Monk had come to the festival purely at Squirrel’s bidding. It was the same reason he chose to stay, tolerating the initial hostility and distrust that had greeted him. There was a bond between the man and the boy that was palpable. It had made her feel rather like an old shoe that had been thrown out at first, but now she was glad Squirrel had such a stalwart protector.

“I can’t hate him, not even a bit,” Pym stated, alluding to a conversation they had many months before. The red-haired had declared then that she’d hated the Monk a little less, just a tad less, mind you, after finding out from Squirrel that the Monk was Fey but had been taken prisoner by the Paladins and twisted into killing his own kind.

Pym sounded resigned, and Nimue understood the feeling. She too had been fighting a losing battle. Nimue did not hate him either, had not for a long time, though she had wanted to so very badly. It was a hard thing no to empathize with the boy he’d been, to see his mournful face and not feel his pain.

And with Squirrel, that was another matter. He came alive with the boy in a way he did with no other. Nimue had caught him smiling once or twice, a fleeting dismal smile, but a smile nonetheless. “I want him to smile at me,” Nimue confessed.

“Well, it is Beltane. I’m sure you can think of something to put a smile on his face,” Pym said, her eyebrows raising suggestively and her eyes going wide.

Both girls burst into giggles.

***

The bonfires were lit at nightfall, lighting up the forest, casting everything in fiery hue, shadows eerily dancing to the beat of their music. Nimue hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it, how much she’d longed for a semblance of a home. The raucous merriment around her filled her with hope, made her even more giddy than she’d been. She felt drunk on joy, on the dancing and the laughter and the scent of flowers and ash and fire.

Pym was still dancing, being twirled around by a young man, red hair shining brightly, laughing like a loon, Gawain and a Faun snuck away into the woods, as many were wont to do at Beltane, and she’d seen Squirrel running around with some of the other children. She had even seen Kaze cracking a smile.

Nimue adjusted the flower wreath on her head, trying to blend into the shadows for just a moment. She was sure she had danced with the entirety of her people, and despite how flattered she was at the attention, a moment to herself was very much welcomed. She sat cradled the roots of a giant tree, content only to watch.

A lone figure standing before the largest bonfire caught her attention. Some of the giddiness tampered out, and a heavy feeling settled onto her chest. Only the monk cut such a lonesome figure. She’d thought he’d left earlier on, and now wondered how long he’d been there, standing alone amidst all the laughter and joy.

She’d giggled with Pym about him like a silly girl, but the truth was, when it came to the Monk, she needed to tread carefully. He wasn't a young village boy, or Arthur with this wicked grin and dancing eyes. The Monk was danger, and darkness, and for the most part still an enigma to her. Nimue had been just as fascinated with him though she had tried to deny it, tried to squash it down, her preoccupation with him had only grown stronger.

She wanted not only to see him smile, but to hold him, and show him the tenderness that he’d gone without for so long. It was a troublesome thing, that which she felt for him, riddled with doubts and fears that lead her nowhere except endless circles in her mind. He did not make matters easy, stoic as he usually was, and many a time she’d wondered if she had imagined the hunger in his eyes.

He remained standing before the bonfire, and though the festivities were all around them, he existed almost in another realm. She wanted to pull him into hers to make him a part of the world they were forging.

With that thought she stood and went to him.

Her determination lasted until he turned to face her, the weight of his eyes both thrilling and unsettling. It was always so with the Monk, every interaction laden with the tension of things left unspoken. He watched her approach in that way of his, his brow furrowing just a bit, his head slightly cocked, his gaze steady and curious. It was an odd feeling, being studied so, not altogether unpleasant.

“This must all be very foreign to you,” she stated when she reached him.

He looked down at her then back at the bonfire. The marks on his face almost glowed with the light of the fire and soft tendrils of hair curled against his face. To Nimue he had always been otherworldly, much more so that night, surrounded by the sounds of drums and the light of the fire.

“I remember,” he said softly, so quietly she almost missed it, having been preoccupied with his appearance.

“You-” she started, not really understanding.

“I remember,” he said, his voice stronger. “I remember this. The fires and the scent of incense and flowers, and even the music. I know it. I know this.” He turned his eyes back to hers, and they were filled with a wonder she’d never seen before. It prompted a smile from her. “And there’s something else, I can’t tell what it is-”

“Magic,” Nimue told him. “It’s magic.”

He’d denied that part of himself for so long he could no longer fully recognize it. The Monk had been robbed of so much, his culture and his language, and being witness to him regaining a small piece of what had been taken was elating. She grinned up at him.

“Lancelot,” she started and then stopped, his name uttered for the first time sounding strange on her tongue, so strange she forgot what she had been about to say. “Lancelot,” she said, trying it again and finding she quite liked it.

He looked at the ground and shook his head slightly. “Even Arthur has called me by name for some time now.” When he looked at her again, she could tell by the arch of his brow and the softness of his eyes that he was amused.

She shrugged good naturally, her grin still in place.

A giggling couple skipped passed them, garnering their attention, until they had disappeared into the darkness of the woods. “Isn’t that-”

Nimue shook her head. “There are no questions on Beltane,” she told him. “It could very well mean nothing, or perhaps everything.”

He frowned at the woods. It was not easy for him to understand with his purinatical upbringing the more lax nature of Fey culture. “Tonight celebrates the Greenwood Marriage, it’s the union of earth and sky. Whatever happens in those woods is sacred,” she told him.

He sighed deeply, looked at the woods the couple had disappeared to. Nimue had the worst sort of urge to drag him into the woods too. His demeanor was a calm one, but she knew there was so much more simmering under the surface. She’d caught glimpses of them here and there, only enough to have her wanting more.

He turned back to face her. “Explain this Greenwood Marriage please,” he asked. His tone was even, soft spoken, but she felt the importance of the question.

They drank mead sitting on the roots of the giant tree she’d taken a liking to, gazed at the revelers as she told him about the Maiden and Jack-In-The-Green, the marriage of earth and sky, about handfasting and going A-maying. The stories came easily to Nimue, a warm fondness settling in her chest, remembering her mother’s voice as she taught her the ways of their people. Lancelot listened intently, asking a pertinent question here and there, the night growing quieter around them.

When there was no more to say about Beltane, she moved to Yuletide and Samhain, until she’d tutored him on each of their holy days. Squirrel stopped by, listened for a short while before falling asleep at their feet, his face stained with sweets he’d indulged throughout the day, and probably a cup or two of mead he’d snatched from someone. Pym stumbled to them a while later to take a place next to the boy and fell asleep instantly.

“Not exactly demons worshipping your devil, or sacrificing Christian babies, is it?” NImue asked.

Lancelot looked around the now quiet camp, gazing around the few remaining people still awake, drinking or gambling, or talking quietly into the night like they were. “Not exactly,” he said, and then laughed at the absurdity of the idea, leaning back into the tree.

He laughed.

_Laughed._

Nimue stared at him, completely awestruck. The laugh had faded into the night, but his smile remained. A beautifully crooked smile that crinkled his eyes and showcased his cheekbones. Her heart was hammering wildly in her chest and the only single thought in her head was how absolutely perfect he was.

It was these moments that had her enthralled with him. It seemed everyday he passed with them the more of him unraveled. And it was such a pleasure to see him find himself, to watch the shackles of shame and guilt break away. The man beneath was kind and chivalrous.

The smile slowly disappeared as he noticed her intense scrutiny. Tension rose, thick and hot between them. He swallowed visibly when she stood, watched her draw closer with heavy lidded eyes, She beckoned him with her hand, exhaled sharply when he stood up to tower over her. Nimue looked up at him, smiled a wicked smile and took off for the woods.

***

She laughed as she ran, more so knowing that he could have caught up with her easily, those long legs of him ate the ground up, but he didn’t, giving in to the playful chase. The sound of his footsteps just behind her was exhilarating, and anticipation was coursing deliciously through her.

The moon was not yet full, and on any other night, the forest would be too dark to see, too treacherous to run with such abandon. On this night the moon shone just right, and the path veered perfectly, allowing lovers a safe harbor under the cover of the woods. The magic Nimue had spoken only moments ago, thrummed with the beat of her heart, exotic and wild and lust filled.

He caught her elbow as they entered a clearing, turning her around in one fluid movement. His face was cast in dark shadows and his eyes were gleaming hungrily. Though having caught her, he made no move toward her. Nimue helped him along by throwing her arms around his shoulders to plant a chaste kiss on his lips that did not remain very chaste for very long.

She wanted to devour him. There was no better word for it. Nimue wanted to eat him all up, make him smile, make him groan, make him beg for more. She nipped his bottom lip, and he drew back, her lust broken slightly by the action.

Closing her eyes, she tried to control her breathing and the need that was clawing at her. She managed to unhand him and step back. An embarrassed smile on her face, an apology at the ready, but he licked his lips and the words died in her throat. He licked his lips again, and even in the dim lighting she could see the sudden wonder.

She felt a pull low and deep in her belly, more so when he picked up her to continue kissing, his arms just under her butt to lift her up to his height. “Like that, did you?”

“Hmm,” he said in response, almost a moan.

She thought perhaps he’d be timid or unsure, but there was nothing bashful about the way he held her or the sinful way in which he returned her kisses. Nimue knew that he hadn't been with anyone else, that he hadn’t given what he felt for her to another woman. There was a relief that she felt at that, knowing it wasn’t only lust that had made him follow her into the woods.

Since he offered no objections about his handling, Nimue continued as she had before; devouring every bit of him she could. When clothes got in the way, they made quick work of them, breaking their embrace to quickly shed articles of clothes. She was entranced by his jawline, the shape of his lips, the length of his collar bone, but most of all, the low groans that reverberated in his chest. She wondered what other delicious sounds she could compel from him.

The earth was soft, cradling them, when they fell upon it. Nimue kissed down his chest, down the taut lines of his stomach, learning every scar, every dip, and every flinch of his body, every sound that escaped his throat embolden her. The sound he made when she took him in her mouth had her toes curling.

She was so ready, so wet and throbbing that she did not linger long. Another time, she promised herself, taking one last taste. She sat up, hovering over him, it was still too dark to see him clearly, but she could hear his heavy breathing, feel his hands on her thighs. It was she who let out a deep moan when she was fully seated onto him.

After that there was only the stretch of him, the sound of their lovemaking, the grip on her thighs digging harder. He wouldn’t last much longer, nor she for that matter, swollen and desperate as she was. His fingers curled into her skin as she brought a hand between her legs, rubbing tight circles as she spent himself inside of her.

When the sky came to focus between the canopy of the trees, she was on her back, Lancelot’s arm cradling her head. Nimue closed her eyes again, savoring the tingling that still remained and tucked herself closer to him.

“Quite the custom, Nimue,” he said, his tone languid.

Nimue snorted, felt his face to feel the smile she thought might be there. It was. “I love to see you smile,” she told him.

“I shall endeavor to do more of it then,” he told her, making her heart go to mush.

He was perfect, she thought for the hundredth time that night. She looked up at the sky again, realized it was almost dawn. They had spent the majority of the night talking and now it was almost over. Nimue sighed, “We should head back,” she told him without much conviction.

“If we must.”

He sounded like Squirrel when being prompted to eat his vegetables. So she curled into him, and settled to watch the sky welcome dawn. As the forest lightened, she was finally able to see his face clearly.

She meant to say something witty, funny, or perhaps romantic. What came out was, “You’re so pretty.” And he was, with his delicate brows and fine nose, those eyes of his made even more beautiful by the mark of his clan. But she hadn’t meant to say it quite so breathlessly.

His eyes went dark and serious and locked on hers. “And you’re magnificent.”

It made her smile, the way he said it, with no intention to flatter, as if he was merely stating a fact. Then he raised a hand to her face, followed the line of her jaw, moved up to her cheek and then down to her lips again. “I want to see you,” he told her, eyes traveling from her eyes to her lips and lower.

Nimue laid back down, flat against the earth, ready and excited for his perusal. The hand that had been on his lips traveled down her throat, past her racing pulse and onto her chest. His touch was gentle as he palmed one breast lovingly. He flattened his palm and traced a path down her ribs, stopping to shape the curve of her waist and hips.

He bent down to kiss her throat, burying his nose in the crook of her neck. “You smell like summer.”

She would have responded, if he hadn't been kissing down her neck, his hand softly caressing her hip and thigh. Her hips arched on their own volition drawing his attention. He took one of her hands and placed it between her legs. “Show me.”

Though she was no untried virgin she felt her cheeks pinken. Above her, his eyes were piercingly curious. Letting out a shaky breath, she pleasured herself, forgetting inhibitions and self consciousness, giving in to him completely.

His hand joined hers, dipping inside her tentatively. She heard herself mewling out a “Please.”

She was swollen, ready for him, eager to have him inside of her again, be a part of her. She had no patience for play, it was too new, the craving for him hardly satisfied. “Lancelot,” she cried, his name a pant and a moan. It was enough to have him move between her legs, sliding inside her in a slow delicious push.

She wrapped her legs around his hips, urging him on, and he indulged her beautifully. There was no purchase to be had on the soft earth, though Nimue clawed and clawed at it, leaving gashes upon the ground. He bore down on her harder, and she broke just as his thrust became sloppier. She was was lost to the feel of him inside her, the buzzing of the hidden in her ears, the sun warming her skin and the scent of the forest around them.

“Is this to be expected every time?” He asked.

They were still joined, she pulsing slightly around him. She propped herself up in puzzlement, saw him gazing at the ground beside them. Nimue looked around in wonder at the freshly bloomed flowers surrounding them. Had she done that?”

“Did it happen the first time?”

“Yes,” he said, turning to look back at her. “I caught their scent right after. They smell like you. “

It was completely disarming, the way in which he said such things to her, with no motive to please and yet he pleased her so. Having lost his hair tie, his hair hung loose in soft tendrils that framed his face enticingly. Nimue tunneled her fingers through his wavy locks, pulled him down for a quick kiss. “It’s never happened before,” she told him. “Perhaps it has to do with Beltane.”

With a heavy sigh he stood and helped her up. They gathered their clothes strewn around the flower field. The flowers were lush and colorful, and once again she wondered at them, but she was soon distracted by a shirtless Lancelot putting on his boots in the center of the blooms. He was a sight, she thought, rumpled and languid, so endearing she thought her heart would burst from it.

“You look freshly tumbled,” she told him playfully.

“As do you,” he said as he put on his shirt.

She finished dressing, a smile ever present on her face, not minding at all her clothes were wrinkled and grass stained. That her hair was a tangled mess or that one of her shoes had gone missing and it was likely she’d head back without it. Not that a shoe would make a difference, looking the way they were.

“Found it,” he said, sounding victorious at having found her shoe. How it had ended up halfway down the clearing was another mystery. “Found this too,” he said, approaching her, the flower wreath she’d worn the night before in his hand. He placed it gently on her head, adjusting it with a gentleness she’d only seen reserved for Squirrel.

They looked at each other and a smile broke between them. Nimue reached up to brush away a blade of grass from his hair. Lancelot took her hand and planted a soft kiss on her palm.

They walked back hand in hand, their fingers entwined. Theirs wasn’t a passing whim, or simple lust. She knew it to be so, knew that he felt the same. Their tryst was the beginning of something that had been brewing since they had met. There was no shame in it, no need to hide it.

***

The flowers were not, as Nimue had surmised, a product of Beltane. The knowledge was gathered that very night, when their bed sprouted new shoots and the floor was dotted with flowers growing in between the stones. From that Beltane on, their home suffered from an over abundance of wildflowers regardless of the season. And not once did the sight of them fail to bring a smile to Lancelot’s lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, I hope my little fluff piece brings a smile to everyone that reads it.


End file.
